


we'll write our love in the stone

by sleepypatrick



Series: 90's AU [1]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: 90's AU, Fluff, M/M, patrick's 17 so that's why it's tagged as underage just in case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-19 07:36:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5959072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepypatrick/pseuds/sleepypatrick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick just wants everyone to know that, out of all the dangerously beautiful and truly dangerous, Pete chose him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we'll write our love in the stone

**Author's Note:**

> this is a fluff piece that makes up an elaborate 90's AU verse that was created in a kik group chat by myself and sleepypatrick. this whole series is just composed of works, ranging in word count and topic, set in this 'verse, exploring different character relationships, but mostly pete and patrick, and how other people interact with them. it's gonna be totally awesome, stay tuned.

Pete's half out of the window, upper body stretched inside to fiddle with the radio, all taut muscles and tan skin gleaming with soap and sweat. Patrick's about to yell for him to start helping, because it's _his_ car, when Geto Boys starts blaring, Pete slipping back out of the window looking satisfied.

"You're gonna wear out the disk," Patrick chides, because Pete plays Uncut Dope on repeat; he listens to Geto Boys the way some people listen to white noise. Pete scoffs, loping over to liberate Patrick of one of the brown rags.

"Will not. It's not a cassette tape, these CD things are durable," Patrick rolls his eyes and doesn't remind him of the time he had to go to the hospital for sitting on a CD. Pete had not been happy about the subsequent removal process, or the stitches. "But you can pick the next CD, okay? Just no more Michael Jackson, because if I have to hear Thriller one more time..." He breaks off and dunks one of the rags in the grimy water, wringing it out in a grey torrent and resuming his halfhearted scrubbing to the drivers side door.  
  
"Thriller is one of, if not _the_ , best albums of all time, and --"  
  
"Yeah, yeah, we know. You really love Mike. Give it a rest, will you?"  
  
Patrick snaps the waterlogged towel at Pete, who dodges it easily with a bleating laugh. "Fine, _I_ won't talk about the musical genius that is Michael Jackson, if _you_ get a haircut."  
  
Pete's hand goes up to twist at the bleached ends of his hair, frowning. "I thought you liked my hair?" He says, wounded. Patrick's trying to formulate a circumlocution when a voice pipes up from behind him.  
  
"Well, I don't." Dale says, sniffing. "And if this car isn't clean before sundown, I'm getting the clippers out." Pete looks crestfallen, but Dale ignores him and gestures Patrick over to the picnic table in the yard, fixing Pete with a stern look when he tries to follow.  
  
"Are you thirsty, baby?" She sets down her pitcher of sweet iced tea -- which, Patrick found out quick, was really sweet -- and a plate of vegetables. She's insisted on making them eat healthy foods during the day so she can make cookies and brownies for them to eat after dinner, and Patrick doesn't mind nearly as much as Pete seems to.  
  
"Thank you," he says brightly, taking the offered plastic cup and dunking a carrot in ranch dressing. "So, are you really gonna cut Pete's hair if he doesn't wash the car?"  
  
Dale smiles and takes a bite out of a cucumber slice. "No," she confides, "but if he thinks I will, it'll be done before his next birthday, and you two can go see a movie." Patrick grins around his mouthful of orange shreds. "But I do hate that hair."  
  
Patrick laughs. "Oh, I know." They've talked about it before, over lemonade and cookies and Pete's sleeping body. Dale supports his self expression, she says, but she hates the bleached ends of his dreads, tells Patrick while he cards his fingers over the hair in question as Pete sleeps with his head in his lap that she thinks he looks like a porcupine.  
  
Him and Dale talk for the twenty minutes it takes Pete to get his rusty brown car mostly clean, about Pete and school and politics and the new movie in theaters. Patrick likes Dale, likes how warm she is and how bright and decidedly Pete-like her smile is, and according to what Pete tells him, she likes him too. Eventually, Pete joins them, plopping down beside Patrick, golden skin covered in patches by soap and droplets of water in others, no shoes or shirt and entirely more distracting than he should be. Patrick's going to miss the summer when it goes, the shirtless lazy days on Pete's front yard or the rental movies on Patrick's bed with the window open. He wonders if Pete will stay with him when school starts again, or if this was a summer fling. It doesn't feel like one, not when Pete twines his fingers with Patrick's on the rough wood of the picnic table while Patrick squints his eyes against the sun and Dale's smile. This feels like something real.  
  
"Well, mom," Pete starts, pausing to chew off the end of his carrot. "I'm taking Patrick into town and showing him off, we'll be back before dinner." He announces grandly, leaning across the table to peck an amused Dale on the cheek and pulling Patrick up and towards the freshly washed car.  
  
"You _just_ washed it," Patrick reminds him. Pete lifts an eyebrow. "It's gonna get dirty again." He warns. Pete shrugs, the picture of indifference, and Patrick frames him like that in his mind: still shirtless, as Pete generally is, warm brown skin flecked with dried soap flakes, dark hair stark against the bleached ends. Pete's beautiful, Patrick thinks, big eyes like a puppy in every shade of brown, and even green and gold if you look hard enough, large white teeth that flash like pearls when Patrick accidentally says something funny. Patrick likes when Pete looks at him like that, likes when Pete laughs like Patrick's something special. Patrick's just a kid, some little white boy with thin hair and a soft belly and clothes that don't fit, and Pete loves him anyway.  
  
"So, Trickalicious," Pete ignores Patrick's protest at the nickname and continues, "you down for a milkshake?"  
  
"Pete, your mom's gonna be mad if we spoil our appetite for dinner," Patrick reminds him, because it's happened before, and Dale berating Pete about how long she spent on the chicken for him to just push it around his plate had been genuinely scary.  
  
Pete scoffs, muscles flexing in his arm as he turns the car onto the main road. "Dinner schminner, babe. Whaddaya say?" Patrick thinks about it.  
  
"You gonna share one with me?" Patrick asks, coy. Pete grins, slanted, glancing at Patrick.  
  
"Two straws and everything, long as you let me eat the cherry,"  
  
Patrick can feel his face turning pink, but he laughs. "What if your thug buddies walk in? You still gonna make heart eyes at me?"  
  
"I'm always making heart eyes at you, you just don't notice," Pete says solemnly. "But, I promise, even if my thug buddies walk in, I'll still kiss the whipped cream off your nose."  
  
It's a sweet sentiment, except, "you're _not_ putting whipped cream on my face." Patrick says firmly. "Or anywhere else." He adds as an afterthought. Pete makes a mockingly crestfallen face, but he pulls into the diner parking lot and puts the car in park in an empty spot.  
  
It's hot, the last dregs of muggy summer that have yet to be tipped from the bottle, and Patrick's got sweat beading on his forehead just from the short walk to the door. The young woman in the powder blue apron looks like she's about to tell Pete he has to put a shirt and shoes on, but her eyes get stuck on the bat disappearing into his waistband and the thorns across his collarbone, and she hands him a menu instead. She doesn't give Patrick more than a disdainful second glance. It's okay; Pete grips his hand a little tighter and smiles like Patrick hung the moon and leads him to a booth.  
  
He deliberates for a second about whether to slide in across from Patrick or beside him, but decides on across and slips in, bare knees knocking companionably against Patrick's. Pete smiles sweetly, big and bright and completely real, then opens up the slick laminated menu and peers at it.  
  
"What flavor? I'm leaning towards chocolate, but," Pete doesn't look at him, but one hand finds Patrick's on top of the table and his eyebrows tilt towards Patrick when addressing him. Patrick nods. 

"Chocolate's fine with me,"

Pete smiles, a little thing, just for them, and waves the waitress over. She has a chewed on pen stuck in her brown bun, wisps of hair framing her sharp features, and she looks at Patrick like he's an inconvenience. At Pete, though, she bats clumpy lashes and parts bubblegum lips in a smile. "What can I getcha, sugar?"

The act falls flat, because this is _Chicago_ , and the Southern Belle thing isn't working for her, but Pete scrunches his eyes up in a polite smile and orders, skillfully ignoring the way her nose wrinkles when he specifies that they want two straws, one shake. Pete ignores a lot of things for Patrick's sake. 

Whitney Houston's playing through the speakers; Patrick hums along and breaks off with a smile when Pete starts trying to plat footsie under the table. Patrick rolls his eyes and tries to tuck his legs under him, but Pete manages to slouch and stretch in his seat so Patrick can't evade him. "Pete, I'm gonna kick you in the knee."

Pete grins and takes his legs away, just in time for the milkshake to be set down between them with more force than the task probably warranted, paper-cased straws bouncing off the table soon after. She's turned on her heel before either of them can say _thank you_ , and both of them dissolve into laughter. It wasn't like they didn't get some type of reaction often enough, but it was still funny every time. They were a hell of a pair, opposites in most ways, but Pete insisted they were soulmates, at least when no one was looking. That was okay to Patrick, too. He knew Pete loved him -- he didn't need him to put his wannabe gangster status on the line because of it. 

The milkshake's good, in the way that chocolate milkshakes shared in diner booths are, sweet and sticky and cold, their noses bumping when they both lean in at the same time. It's unbearably cliche, Pete kissing him over a chocolate shake, but Patrick lets it happen, let's himself be young and in love and happy. When their straws start coming up empty, Pete tosses the money down on the table and tugs Patrick to his feet, throwing the waitress a wink on their way out. 

Pete's car's already gross again, dust and pollen clinging to the damp sides. The sun was starting to sink, blue sky tinted pink and purple. Patrick's watch was broken (Pete made fun of him for continuing to wear it) but he's pretty sure it's a little before 6. Pete looks a little disgusted by the condition of the car, and Patrick makes a little I told you so face. "I'll help you wash it when we get home." Patrick offers, and Pete lights up -- Patrick's not sure if it's at Patrick calling it home or offering his assistance -- and nods. The spikes of his hair bob ridiculously with the motion. 

They're back to Pete's house in five minutes, the perks of the suburbs, and Dale waves at them from inside the house. Pete parks haphazardly in the yard, even though Dale's told him a million times that she's going to start cuffing his ear for every tire mark in the grass. Patrick sees her evil eye from the window, but she's trapped with the dinner on the stove. He's sure she'll get him later. 

"C'mon, it's bath time for rust buckets," Pete announces, picking up one of the abandoned buckets from earlier and taking it towards the hose. "Where's the soap?" Patrick noses around the yard until he finds the half empty bottle, righting it so it doesn't leak into the grass and handing it to Pete, who's filling a bucket with water. 

He dumps the soap in the bucket, frothy bubbles flowing out of the rim and down Pete's arms. Patrick looks at the raised lines of the tattoo on Pete's back, and he must zone out, because the next thing he notices is a torrent of water to the face. 

Patrick splutters, raising his arms up to block the spray. Pete's braying laugh rises above the din and Patrick can't help but join in. "Fucking _stop_ , Jesus!" Pete's still cackling, but he turns the hose on the car instead. Patrick's shirt is heavy with water and clings to his torso, and it's not comfortable at _all_. He tries picking it off his skin, but it separates with a wet sound and attaches again. Patrick gives up, and considers losing the shirt entirely, but he turns red at the thought and decides to suffer in damp suctioned silence. Of course, then he remembers about Pete's discarded tank top, still in the backseat of the car. And, of course, the windows are rolled down, and of fucking course Pete's spraying the car with water. 

"Pete! Stop spraying for a minute, I need to get something!" Pete halts his motions with the hose, cocking his head at Patrick. Patrick's hand slips on the wet door handle, but he gets it open and rummages around for Pete's shirt. It's got a few water droplets on it, and it smells like sweaty boy and grass, but it's Pete smell, so Patrick shrugs off his soaked shirt and turns Pete's tank top right side out. 

"Hey, roll down the windows while you're -- hey, what're you doing, Rick?" Pete's face looms in the window, eyes getting wider when they see Patrick. Patrick goes red and lifts Pete's shirt in explanation. 

"Mine is -- my shirt got wet, I was. I'm, um, just putting this one on?" He's not sure why he's stuttering so much, but this is the first time Pete's ever seen him without a shirt on, which is how Patrick likes it, and now he's exposed, freckled pasty skin and all. Pete doesn't look disgusted, though. 

Pete opens the door, letting it halfway close on his legs, getting all in Patrick's space. "You think I won't get that one wet, too?" Patrick scowls, because he better fucking not, and he moves his arms to cover most of his stomach. Pete leers, but his eyes are soft when he says, "you could just not wear a shirt," 

Patrick shakes his head emphatically. "I don't like that idea." Pete's eyes crinkle at the corners, finally reaching out and putting warm hands on Patrick's bare waist, tripping along his ribs and around to his spine. Despite the heat, Patrick shivers. Pete notices.

"I do, though," he says into Patrick's ear, fluttering a damp strand of hair. Pete brushes a kiss to Patrick's cheek, and to the corner of his mouth, before pressing his lips solidly against Patrick's. Patrick brings his hands up to rest on Pete's face, sliding one up to his stupid hair and the other to curl around his jaw. Pete's gentle, soft and careful in a way Pete isn't with anything else, hands and fingers and mouth searching but not taking, and Patrick melts into it. Pete pulls back after a few seconds, breath puffing hot against Patrick's cheek. "But if you're not comfortable, it's fine. You look good in my clothes anyway." 

Patrick smiles gratefully. Pete helps tug the shirt over his head and roll the windows up, and Patrick dutifully scrubs at the side of the car. In a bout of love struck mischievousness, Patrick takes his index finger and writes **PETE WENTZ + PATRICK STUMP** in the dust on the back windshield, and doesn't wipe it away. When Pete sees it, he smiles and says, "yeah," pulling Patrick in for another kiss.

A week later, it's still there. 

**Author's Note:**

> i've edited the setup of this series since i posted it but y'all are smart. i hope you enjoy this and the rest of this verse. find me (kalesmay, the author of this chapter) on tumblr at drakethistoyourgrave (my main) or wentzfluff (my fic related blog), and sleepypatrick at ryden-fucker or peterick-sin


End file.
